The Argyles Sheets to the Wind Summer Tour

Wednesday, 1 August 2012

I am on the plane to Toronto. My legs, knees, and body ache;
my brain hurts from fatigue. I was going to prepare a post about life on the
road as a rockstar. Is this a viable career path? I will save you all some time
and tell you no. Instead, I have an unexpected tale for you.

GD said it felt like a miniature van

It was
a sunny day as we drove from North Delta into Vancouver. We had made plans for
a sejour into Chinatown followed by dinner with our friend Cindy. But Greg had other
plans: he wanted to climb the Grouse Grind, a trail on a medium-sized mountain
just outside of the city. I was not
thrilled at the prospect, wearing tight jeans, a dress shirt, and a $10 pair of
flip flops. Life on the road had also taken its toll with my ponch sticking out
more prominently than it once did. But Dowling seconded the idea; I decided why
not. Greg provided some comforting words: “Don’t worry. It’s more vertical than
horizontal.” I misinterpreted that sentence.

The four
of us parked just outside; I found just climbing the gentle incline just to get
inside vexing. At the entrance I spied a group of BC Yuppies, dressed in flashy
athletic gear and water bottles strapped to their hips, in Yoga positions
getting ready for the climb. A large sign warned us of all the necessary provisions
for the hike of which we possessed none, especially water. Yet we paid no heed and
began.

We answered no to all of these questions

The
gentle incline became steeper and steeper. I started off slower than the rest,
struggling to keep my balance on the rocky terrain. But I settled into a good
pace. Then Dowling slowed down and
walked with me, a gesture I much appreciated. But then I noticed his panting.
His breaked more frequently; one quarter
of the way up, he could journey no more. He descended and waited in the parking
lot.

GD taking his final break

GD was
the next casualty. About 20 minutes later, we breaked again; afterwards, he
said he could go no further without water and removing his hipster jeans. I
suggested he take them off, but he shuddered at the idea. I was, however,
feeling invigorated by the exercise and my strength persisted. Flips flops made
the climb trickier, but it didn’t make the cardio-vascular aspect more challenging. Greg and I pressed on for
the top. I snacked on a small portion of mushrooms. Shortly after, we made it
to the top. My legs were exhausted, but I had done it. I had climbed the Grouse
Grind in flip flops.

The view wasn't what I had hoped for

But the
honeymoon ended quickly: after I came up, I came up. I felt ill, light headed,
and paranoid; I realized we had to descend. There were three options: the
first, a gondola ride which packed people in as if it was the Tokyo subway; I
didn’t feel up for that challenge. The second was an alternative trail down a steep
cliff twice as long; given that GD and Matt were waiting in the parking lot,
that option would please few. Lastly, to descend down the trail we just
climbed, which was against park rules and full of rule abiding professionals
getting a climb in before bed. All options equally as daunting, I choose the
third.

We
began descending the main trail, passing many steady stream of panting
climbers; I heard many quick exhales. Then my haggard mind made a conclusion:
they were laughing at me. Indeed, from the feet up, I looked ready for the
club; from the feet down, the beach. I descended for 10 minutes and my legs
were convulsing. Many probably doubted that I would make it down. What had I gotten
myself into? Thankfully, we at least had the good sense to procure some water.

Shortly
after starting, I needed a break. But they did little for my legs and only gave
other climbers more time to look, laugh, and comment. Some expressed disbelief;
one was even impressed. Having had enough, I pressed on. The spasms intensified.
But I had to keep going: the entire situation was my fault and everyone was
waiting for me. The narrow path also made it treacherous. As descending this
way was against the rules, I needed to find alternative routes which involved
sliding and jumping. After one such detour, I was unable to stop my momentum
and grasped for tree just before I was to fall down a steep, rock filled slope.

\My slow descent down the rocky path

The
stream of climbers increased. They looked at me like some sort of spectacle.
The BCers appeared ready to climb Mount Kilimanjaro whereas I was totally
unprepared. This even aroused anger: one girl muttered as I passed, “You look
like a fucking joke,” as if I was belittled the entire endeavor. I probably
did. But for the most part people
laughed. Others made fun of me in other tongues, but their tone gave themselves
away. I maintained a stoic expression to show these BC climbers this was no big
deal, even though I was pushing my body harder than ever before. Yet things began to improve as I reached the
half-way point: the weakness of my legs plateaued and my mind calmed. I also
realized this was going to make an excellent blog post. I even thought to stop
and taking a picture.

Greg needed to do some recovering as well

The
vegetation began to change, the path became less rocky, and we could hear
traffic again. I knew we were getting close. I was exuberant. I even began to
walk with some swagger in my steps. Then the parking lot appeared. I was going
to make it. Whereas these yuppies struggled to complete the climb with their
expensive shoes, synthetic clothing, and energy drinks, I did it with no
provisions, in sandals and skinny jeans, and having been on tour for the past
30 days, which involved much sitting in the van, drinking, and being a fat ass.
To what do I attribute my success? The power of my mind: never once did I think
I would not make it; never did I let the pain get in the way of my goal. I knew
it would end and it did. I had shown the self-proclaimed outdoors people of BC
what it really meant to be hardcore.

I
collapsed into the front seat of the van and we drove to meet up with our
friend Cindy, another casualty of my poor decision. Greg pulled onto the Trans
Canada; there was no merging lane and he slammed on the breaks; a car whizzed
by us. It pained me to think that turning onto the highway was more dangerous
than the entire journey I had just completed.

Monday, 30 July 2012

We spent the night in a hotel room after failing to find a
campsite open at midnight. I had been trying to implement my secret scheme: get everyone drunk in the back of the van,
wait for them to pass out as I kept finding excuses to keep driving, and then brave the mountain passes of the interior in the middle of the night to get us to Greg’s
house in North Delta at 3am. But nobody bit and we ended our journey in
Kelowna.

Another delicious dinner of meat and beer

We
pulled into Greg’s house at three pm that day. We had made it intact, with only a
minor amount of damage on the van. We were greeted by three men
whose mannerisms and jaw lines bore a striking resemblance to Greg’s.
They were his father and brothers. As I explored the interior of his house, I
discovered an assortment of items that could only belong to the McLeod’s:
chemistry books, musical instruments, and a hallowed out version of War and
Peace which was hiding calculus for dummies.

We had
a show lined up for the evening at the one 20 bar and grill, some kind of bar
and grill hybrid that seemed to attract the beefy broish clientele of the Surrey/North
Delta area. As I entered the venue,
one barmaid scolded us: “It’s 8 o’clock. You said you would be here at 7:30,”
and other trite remarks which I couldn’t be bothered to listen to. She then proceeded
to storm out the door. Clearly she had never heard of musician time, which means that whatever time musician tells you, add one hour. As far as I was concerned, we were early.

Our venue on the Surrey/North Delta border

The
McLeod family and Greg’s friend provided a sizable crowd for the evening. It
was a good feeling to play for them, being our last show of the tour and for the
foreseeable future. Martin and Greg
kicked off the evening with some piano with Greg’s accompaniment, followed by
another solid set by the Martov backups. Given as they had never practiced together
before the tour, Matt and Greg did an excellent job filling in and had got their parts down by the end.

I kept getting distracted by the Olympics

Then
came the Argyle set. We pulled out all of the songs we could, new and old, that
we had learned on the trip. We had really come together as a band. GD was solid
on base, Matt’s drumming tight, and I had even become proficient at soloing
during the instrumental sections after the chorus. I was playing so fast it
felt like I was strumming the sax rather than pushing down buttons. The entire
time, Greg wore a grin that could only be rivaled by his stage energy. We
closed with Low Point and Lights, and it was over; Greg closed with the line, “we
were the Argyles”; and then we had a hot, sweaty group man hug on stage. The
tour was over; we survived.

The McLeods are like fives strings on a bass

Rolling
deep with a collection of Greg and his brother’s friends, we went back to the
McLeod residence to celebrate. Having driven us to and from the venue, I had some
catching up to do; GD wasted no time polishing off the van whisky; we went
outside and Greg pulled a long, brown stick out of his pocket and lit it. I had
never enjoyed cigars, but by the end of the night, I was sucking it back and enjoying
the sweet flavours that only carcinogens
can provide.

But Greg, despite being from BC, was a natural

I learned to love the cigar

I found myself outside without any Argyles but
Greg and a collection of his friends. As if driven by some impulse buried within their DNA, they began Toronto bashing. Fortunately, I had dealt with this situation
before. Usually, after announcing that I was from Toronto and the other person failed to respond, I would follow with, “it’s unfortunate, isn’t it?” which had been
good for a few laughs. Sometimes, telling jokes can be facile. But this time, I
decided to own up to my former inclinations about Toronto being the centre of
the universe: “Well, I wasn’t actually sure that the rest of Canada existed
until this trip. I thought all the people I met from the rest of Canada were
part of some nefarious, left-wing scheme to trick me into denying Toronto’s rightful
status.” I think I've got an idea for a sitcom character.

Saturday, 28 July 2012

I am sick of blogging. And you all are sick of me. They say pictures are worth a thousand words; additionally, they are much easier to post. So here is a collection of photos that will amount to 17,000 words.

Enjoying the biggest hotdog I've ever seen. I ate it with a knife and fork.

Thursday, 26 July 2012

We
parked the van outside the venue, one wheel up on the curb, suspension
straining. We’d need it working if we were going to cross the Rockies, but
tonight we didn’t care. Tonight we were in Calgary, and we had a show to play.

Everyone is hard at work

Actually,
I had two shows to play. I’ve been doing double duty for most of the tour,
filling in the rhythm section for Alexei Martov and singing for the Argyles. At
least tonight I knew I would get a break, with local bands You Are OK and Reijo
rounding out the bill.

Nice job, anonymous poster maker!

The
Argyles were headlining. I know because I read it on the poster outside. Rolling
into a bar you’ve never been to before to play a show can be a confusing
experience, and descending into Dickens, I wondered who the heck had made this
poster for us. Still, buoyed by the confidence of seeing my name in ink, I
strode straight up to the bar and asked the pirate-esque barmaid where we should
load our equipment in.

“Just in the front,” she asserted and upon sizing me up,
amended: “who are you?”

“The Argyles,” I replied, doing my telekinetic best to draw
her eyes to the poster prominently displayed on the wall behind me.

“Oh,” she said. “Your shirt has Pac Men ghosts on it. That’s
funny.”

Looking down, I had to admit that she had a point.

Being in a rock band without
roadies is a lot like being a professional house mover, the heavy lifting only
broken up by monotonous hours in the van. And like a professional mover taking
a break to chat up the client’s attractive daughter, actually playing songs is
just the Argyles taking time out for a little transcendence.

I have no idea what key we are in

But the transcendence would have
to wait, because the Argyles were fourth on the bill. Alexei Martov started the
night off with a bluesy kick, while Matt and my limited knowledge of how to actually
play the songs lent a 'free jazz' element to the rhythmic accompaniment. You Are
OK followed with three slow post-rock builders turned burners, led by R Kent’s bearded
yowl. The night was off at a good clip.

R Kent, mountain man

Then
show organizers Reijo took the stage. Their name had been something of a
mystery to me: was it Finnish? Spanish? It took mere seconds to quell my curiosity;
whatever language it was, it meant “sounds like U2.” And from the cowboy hat to the
sunglasses to the acres of rackmount gear, guitarist Storm & Co. weren’t
afraid to wear their influences on their rhinestoned sleeves. After
soundchecking “Vertigo,” they worked their way through nearly a dozen original
songs, with pre-recorded bass parts replacing their newly-fired bassist.

Fun fact: there are no Joshua trees in Calgary

By the
time Reijo had finished playing and packed up their gear, most of You Are OK’s
audience had decamped, along with a good portion of Reijo's own audience (working
early, no doubt). So the Argyles had only a hard core of bartenders, barflies,
and musicians (whose gear was still on stage) to watch us. The soundman apologetically
told me that we only had 20 minutes.

“Play a punk version of your set,” he joked.

I informed the remaining band
members (Ryan had fled outside during Reijo’s set) that we had time for six
songs. While irked, GD displayed his customary resourcefulness by quickly
proposing a workable setlist. I congratulated him on his quick thinking,
despite his obvious inebriation. I was designated driver for the night, but the
band had powered through our complimentary beer in short order. In short, we
were ready to rock.

GD pauses to think about the setlist

But now
the soundman had disappeared, and our mics were dead. I took our time constraints
seriously, though, so we launched into ‘Cigarette 2 Step’ anyway. By the third
verse, the soundman was back from his cigarette break and the audience could
hear us. And by the third song, I could hear myself as well. Everything was
going well.

So well,
in fact, that I attempted to indulge in a little stage banter. My banter is
much-maligned, and not unreasonably so; I am often unable to pithily convey the
meanings of my songs due to my own intoxication. But tonight I was clear headed,
and before the agreed-upon last song I launched in:

“This song is about…”

“What are we playing?” GD interjected.

“Sorry,” I apologized to the audience. “This song is called…”

“WHAT are we playing?” GD brayed.

“LIGHTS! The song is called Lights!” I shouted
exasperatedly. GD had come up with the setlist, but was too soused to recall
it. I gave up my feeble attempt at banter. "It goes like this!"

Tuesday, 24 July 2012

First an apology: I have merged two blog entries into one,
given that the 22nd was one of those rare uneventful days. Also, I
am only one man, and an increasingly cranky
one. But I promise to my devoted fans to capture all of those
unfortunate, internet worthy moments until I get on the plane back to Toronto,
after which I will prepare, for your pleasure, a I what I have learned post; it
will be insightful but very boring.

We needed to reorganize the van

The
morning after our evening with Tomahawk was a late one. At 1 pm, we struggled out of bed and over to Greg’s relatives for a fish fry. It may have
been the most delicious meal I ate on tour, complete with fish, potatoes, and a
divine taco salad. To top it off, they shoved more beers in our hands which
Martin particularly enjoyed. I think he was still drunk from the previous
evening. To make a long story short, we drove to Saskatoon while Martin
polished off a bottle of wine in the back; him and Greg talked about music the whole way; we
spent the night in the most immaculate campsite, named after Gordon Howe; we
finished the night with a game of 9 to 9.

The
next day we rolled out to Edmonton. We had a show that night at New City, a
punk rock venue in the midtown. Then came better news: our western connections
had landed us a floor to sleep on that evening. We were ecstatic; simple
amenities like power, internet, and no bugs are heavenly after spending two
weeks camping.

Greg outside of New City

Maneuvering the van can be an ordeal

We
arrived at the venue for sound check at 6 pm. There was a narrow alley we needed
to enter to load in, which required difficult maneuvering for
Matt. First, he drove backwards down a busy as we had driven past it; then he
executed the turn too early and was unable to get in, requiring some difficult re-orienting
on a busy street; finally, we got him to turn into this narrow driveway on the
right. But we had misjudged size of the van. As he was turning right, we
realized he about to graze a pole. He stopped just in time, but the side of the
van was less than a cm away. After a band huddle, our course of
action was still unclear. Fortunately, a seasoned passerby told us how to solve the problem. Matt cut hard right,
but slowly, and we were free. Crisis averted. To celebrate, we had some band
McDonalds.

Band McDonalds: a good idea until after you eat it

Inside with our new Edmonton bros

The
venue was a dark basement below another bar. It looked punk rock, decorated
with plastic skeletons, bills from previous shows, and chairs,
tables, and wall paper that were all black; however, the music playing suggested it was welcoming
to eclectic tastes. The crowd was made up of a similar mix of hipster and punk
rockers. Like das Drink and Die haus, it was time for the Argyles to unleash their inner punk-rocker. We began the set with one down; a string on Greg's guitar went down. Next was I'll take it; string number two broke. Then we played Blackjacks, a song celebrating the spirit of rage. We played it faster than usual, but still kept it tight. Then, during one of Greg's patented stage jumps, he broke the strap on his guitar; he recovered without losing a step. We kept going strong. The song progressed and we arrived at a pause, during which I usually jump. As completed the move and landed, my sax went smashing onto the stage. Earlier that day, I had bought a new strap and decided it wasn't worth spending the extra $10 for a better one. Now I will have to spend $100 to get it fixed. Yet performing with a disregard for the longevity of our instruments seems to have won the crowd over. And my sax still worked so long as I stuck to the lower octaves. Greg in particularly played with more than energy than usual. We finished. He was ecstatic, congratulating us all on how well we had performed. We were ready for the big show in Calgary the next day.

That
morning, the Argyles snuck out of the motel and made our way to the local
Safeway for breakfast. There wasn’t much driving to do that day, but we wanted
to get there at a decent hour. Where we were headed? The backfields of Eastern
Sasktachewan to a place called Round Lake. It would be best described as
cottage country. Greg had relatives living there and had lined up a cabin to
stay in. He had also gotten us a gig at a bar in Crocked Lake, their rival
community which was a twenty minute drive away. It was a Saturday night and the
only bar in town.

Dining on cereal in the parking lot

After
ripping our way through poorly maintained country roads, we made
it to yet another isolated part of the world. We met Greg’s relatives who then
cooked us a lovely dinner of burgers and beer. But I was disappointed: I had
perfected my “oh yeahs” only to discover that people don’t speak that way in
Saskatchewan. They seemed to enjoy the company of rockstars. We told them the most uncensored tales from the tour, but they roared the hardest at GD and Martin being unable to drive.

GD financing the final leg of the tour

Upon
arriving at the bar, I was greeted by a large boisterous man in a green shirt.
“So, you guys opened for Pearl Jam right?” Caught off guard, all
I could do was lie. He continued to assert this fact throughout the set, mostly
through yelling. There were some people
in the bar, but not as many as expected. Were there so many better things to do
in this sleepy town? But we started our set anyways, performing mostly for
Greg’s extended family. After an hour and a half, we took a break and decided
to call it a night.

Old wounds were soon forgotten

Half
way through packing up, people started to arrive. They were upset that we had already played
our set and wanted us to play again. They even started getting belligerent,
blocking our way to the door, glaring at us, and continuing to yell. I had
never been subjected to such collective hostility. The cause: the man in the
green shirt, whose named we would later discover to be Tomahawk, posted on
facebook that we had opened for Pearl Jam, a lie which this group of local
youths believed. But Greg was exhausted from his two sets and three hours of
playing yesterday; it was no dice.

They like to drink alcohol

But in
a moment of good judegment, we decided to stay at the bar.
After nip of van-whisky to calm our nerves, we headed into the jungle. There
were open seats next to Tomahawk so we decided to take them. Although there
were others seated with us, no one could match the quantity and volume of his
speech. We got our first pitcher and poured ourselves glasses. “Bottoms up,”
Tomahawk commanded, and we had little choice but to comply.

The
evening progressed in a similar fashion. Tomahawk went outside and returned to
show us a video of himself puking. Then one ill-tempered member of their group
ordered 20 jagerbombs and handed them out to us. Once again, we complied. Then Tomahawk decided it was time to move the
party back to his house. His friend purchased 72 beers from the bar to fuel the
next stage of the evening. We then piled 10 into the van and ventured out into
the unknown.

Tomahawk made the van look small

Martin trying to get everyone to sing along to Robots

2
minutes later, we arrived at Tomahawk’s pad, or rather his mothers. It was a
nice house. Indeed, Tomahawk repeated that his mom was a millionaire, owing to
her position as a manager of several banks at a nearby reserve. Whenever he
mentioned this, he beamed with pride about her success. We sat downstairs in
his basement, waiting for the rest of the party to come downstairs. Tomahawk
gave beers to each of us; then, he pulled out the guitar. We were going to have
to sing for our supper. But Greg was up to the task and began what would be the
soundtrack to the entire evening.

As Greg serenaded the party, Tomahawk continued to shove beers into our hands. The night progressed as expected: Martin spent 5 minutes trying to get everyone to sing along to Robots; Tomahawk challenged Martin and I to go; we complied; two locals nearly threw down over a girl. Then day broke. With much of the party retired, we decided to head on our way. After some bear hugs from Tomahawk, we drove off into the distance.

We took the hockey helmet with us

Matt, stone cold sober, had to do a lot of DDing that night

We pulled into the driveway at our cabin. We got out of the
van; a look of panic came across Greg’s face: He had left the keys at Crooked
Lake, at least that was his suspicion. Matt, the driver, was less than
impressed. But we had little other choice. We left GD on the porch in the fetal position and loaded
into the van for the twenty minute drive to Crooked Lake. Matt even drove 100 down the bumpy country roads. Upon arriving
back at the house, Greg dashed into the backyard. He returned thirty seconds
later looking like he had just completed a triathlon. The keys were in his hands. Victorious, the Argyles cracked some road rockets and enjoyed
a pleasant ride back as day broke.